


The Real World

by hennethgalad



Category: Fiction - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 03:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10376580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: a young man fills the unforgiving minute.





	

  
The Real World.

  
Tristram opened the fridge door, chose his favourite tropical juice and drank from the bottle with satisfaction. He was certain that their marriage worked so well because he liked the mornings and his wife was a night owl. For long hours of the day, each had sole possession of their domain, and the walls were thick enough to absorb sound, and let each relax.  
There was a slight haze in the air, doubtless pollution, he mused, but it was filled with golden light from the bright spring sun, it seemed to glow through the large windows, filling the room, adding vigour to the few rich colours of the fabrics. The bowl of fruit had a magical, still-life quality, he pulled his phone out and took a few shots, hoping to capture the rare shimmer in the air. The tv came on, he absently stuffed the phone back in his pocket and turned to the grim-faced newsreader, reaching for cereal and bowl.

The air was foul at street level. When they had bought the flat in Central London, they had both agreed that the saving on time and transport would more than compensate for the steep price, but even so, both her parents and grandparents had had to have died to supplement even their generous salaries for the exorbitant price they had finally paid. Nevertheless, he thought, as he strolled down the pavement to work, nevertheless...  
His law company was a mere ten minute walk for him, he often went home for lunch, especially when his wife worked at home. The design part of interior design was best done in the large studio, which they both dreamed of eventually turning back into a dining room to host sophisticated dinner parties, rather than just getting drunk with their college friends round the kitchen table, especially now that they were turning thirty. He would like to invite his boss, and stop that yellowed skeleton of a wife of his from sneering at his beloved Fleur, who always always had a pencil behind her ear, like a cartoon workman.

He bought a paper from the stand, and treated himself to a bar of chocolate. He went to the gymn regularly, he was allowed chocolate, besides, he was certain he'd read that it was good for you. Iron, or something. It could be counted as dessert, at the very least. He laughed at himself, he was running his body like an expense account... The friendly guy in the newsstand gave him the ritual nod, half smile and abbreviated 'mornin boss.' He smiled briefly and strolled on, the sound of traffic was beginning to thicken in the air around him, solidifying into the familiar vanishing roar, as constant as the coursing of blood, as inaudible as a heartbeat. The haze hung in the still air, barely rippled by a passing bus, the slow traffic growled past him, a distant stereo sent strange booms and hisses down the line, a sharp staccatto rapper demanding undefinable deeds. A street tree, misty with opening leaves, muted and warped the sound, he glanced up at the last sharp sight of silhouetted branches, spring was well under way, soon the street would be thick with green clouds of leaves, the lovely fractal tracery of twigs veiled til the dance of the autumn winds.

The scent of the Austrian bakery reached him from the next junction. His mouth watered, perhaps if he went for a swim at lunchtime... There was a queue inside, he glanced at his watch, still plenty of time. The brisk friendliness of the young staff gave a pleasant buzz to the atmosphere, beaming customers left with larger bags and boxes than they had anticipated, full of smug satisfaction and warm anticipation of the treats ahead. Tristram tore his eyes away from the laughing green eyes of the redhead and focused on the elegant, golden-brown arrays under the curved glass counter. He ordered a pastry, and a dozen of the biscuits, half-coated with chocolate, that Fleur loved so much. Secretly, he loved them too, but it had become a thing, that they were a present to her, and he never told her that more than once he had absent-mindedly eaten a whole box at work, and had to buy another on the way home. The redhead winked at him, he almost dropped the change she was giving him, but managed a faint smile as he turned to leave. A bloke in glasses behind him was looking coldly at him, as if to say, what have you got that I dont have, and Tristram smiled to himself and thought 'contact lenses'...

The lights were about to change as he reached the junction, he could hear sirens, there seemed to be a few of them down the road. He waited calmly, the other pedestrians all seemed to be looking at their phones, but Tristram liked to use the walk to clear his mind, to be alive in the moment, a free individual, smelling the air, enjoying the moments, watching a real leaf fall, not a tiny video of a falling leaf. There was a white van, it seemed to be heading straight toward him, but it was imposdible to judge its speed, it was coming directly toward him. He frowned and stepped back, the van seemed to be both slowing down and rapidly growing in size, he looked quickly at the others, they seemed frozen in action, mouths and eyes wide, raising arms to helplessly shield faces, leaping backwards, scattering. The sirens now had lights to help them fill the street, a strobing blue brightness, and the familiar thudding rattle of a helicopter began to echo down the geometric canyon of the buildings. His limbs were stuck in syrup, it was the slow-motion dream, but the sense of bright unreality did not leave him, even as the white van, swerving, caught him a glancing blow and sent him cartwheeling through the air.

The pathologists were unable to tell Fleur whether Tristram had been conscious when his head landed on the spikes that the investment bank had installed on the pavement 'to deter the homeless.' But they were certain that he would have survived the impact if the spikes had not been there. Tristram's law firm sued the bank, and won, and Fleur was paid a great deal of money, but she never forgave them, and she never recovered from the grief, but framed the last photo he had taken, and spent the rest of her life trying to paint the golden haze that he had not quite managed to capture.

The End. 


End file.
